


Ad Mortem Festinamus

by chantefable



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brothers, Crime Scenes, Family, Gen, Investigations, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Malfoy Family, Minor Violence, Mystery, Secret Identity, Unspeakables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epilogue AU. Wherein Draco is an Unspeakable, Scorpius is his younger brother, Severus looks healthy and handsome, and we all hasten towards death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ad Mortem Festinamus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Snaco Exchange.

Cold, bleak daylight is creeping over the relentlessly noisy streets of London, dragging out of the darkness the dirt and dust on the pavement, angry splotches of colour – red, black, blue, yellow, green – cars and buses caught in an endless loop of movement on the road, like a swarm of shiny, oversized insects, and here and there, a silvery glimmer of breached wards or a smooth, wave-like distortion of the air following a Disapparition.

Everything is visible, out there in the open. Magic is happening in broad daylight.

One just has to know where to look.

***

Deep in the bowels of London there's a grim little alley tucked away somewhere – its exact name and location are not crucial for the purpose of this story. What matters is that this is a very small alley indeed, and no one on the crowded streets is paying it any attention, even when the air shimmers brightly and, with a soft popping sound, reveals a man in a black, buttoned down coat.

The man turns on his heel and casts a look around, perfectly at ease and not in the least disheartened by the fact that he – with his strange coat, funky little black buttons going all the way down – looks as out of place in a stinky, Disillusioned Muggle Alley as a Bugbear in a herd of unicorns. (But that's typical of him, I assure you.)

The CCTV camera obligingly turns the other way as the man walks down the narrow alley, side-stepping scraps of junk. It is a dead end, but the man seems utterly unperturbed by it, and stops beside a heavily scraped garbage can – some six feet before the grimy wall sealing the alley – with the look of a man who has happily reached his coveted destination. 

The air is damp with the promise of rain, a little putrid and a little heavy. A fat rat peers out from under the garbage can, its nose twitching inquisitively; it edges closer to the man's gilded leather boots, clearly anticipating entertainment.

The man doesn't disappoint. He slips a wand out of his sleeve – rosewood and dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches – and casts a spell in one smooth sweep, plunging the entire alley in greyish mist. Once it dissipates, it is no longer morning: the fading light and heavier, buzzing sounds from the street indicate early evening. More importantly, however, there is now a limp body at the man's feet: a boy of about seventeen, in jeans and a white t-shirt splattered with blood, his fingers still clenched tight around the strap of a small satchel.

The boy is also a little transparent.

"Oh, how perfectly disgusting. You dragged me out of the laboratory to look at an imaginary dead body. If you thought it would ruin my appetite and you could get out of buying lunch for my trouble, you are terribly mistaken."

The deep low voice belongs, of course, to Dr Prince – here he is, standing several feet away with a look of infinite boredom and possibly slight peckishness. The CCTV camera studiously ignores him.

The other man doesn't, but then, that is sort of the point. 

Besides, Dr Prince is always rather hard to ignore, I should say. He has a very commanding presence and a healthy constitution, the first possibly coming from surviving two wars, and both times on the winning side, the second probably coming from spending almost twenty years amidst the delights of rural Switzerland. Peace and quiet and chocolate made for what I maintain is a very good look on him; when he visits Britain these days, he is hardly ever recognised on the street – with his features pleasantly rounded and his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, Dr Severus Prince does not very much resemble the celebrated yet harried war hero, Professor Severus Snape. But the most considerable difference is, I believe, the glare. Draco has always said that it was spectacular to behold, but I reckon I have only witnessed bleak copies in my lifetime. One would suspect that country air and absence of teaching has made Dr Prince positively cheerful.

But oh, Draco. Of course. I have forgotten all about him, terribly sorry.

Draco – that would be the other man, the one in a posh black coat and with a friendly rat sniffing at the heels of his boots – naturally does not ignore Dr Prince, since the point of this magiforensic exercise of recreating the crime scene is to obtain Dr Prince's opinion. Dr Prince does not intend to be very forthcoming with information, though, circling the magical imprint of the victim with a scowl on his face, so Draco makes all the right noises and asks all the right questions, hums and sighs in all the right places as Dr Prince teases him none too gently about stating the obvious and dissects the evidence and spell residue data under his breath. There's also an undercurrent of innuendo there, as if those two are not Senior Unspeakable and the Highest Paid Consulting Expert in the History of the Department of Mysteries, but a two person rom-com act on WWN. You know, those inspired by Muggle CSI and sponsored by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes?

It's quite a show, and one that I am continuously bored with whenever those two are within hexing distance of each other, so I hope you will forgive me if I don't get into details this time. 

(Besides, that's a glimpse of my brother's private life, after all. I suppose it is a tad indecent to blather on about him ruffling his peacock feathers under the indulgent gaze of Dr Prince, trying to earn a sarcastic remark like it is highest praise. Yes, I guess I should withhold the particulars, even if they are hilarious.)

Anyway, what matters here is that after a great deal of talking and even a greater deal of meaningful pauses, it is universally established that Harry Pimpernel, a little over seventeen years old and fresh out of Hogwarts, has indeed expired due to a violent application of a modified, lightened Sectumsempra curse and a Silencing spell. Ingenious. Quick. Deadly. 

Probably very painful.

Dr Prince declares it the work of a talented amateur or a gifted student, not a professional Charms Master. The transparent replica of Harry Pimpernel remains indifferent, staring into the fake evening sky with dull, unseeing eyes.

Draco, on the other hand, appears both agitated and displeased, as if he can already smell hot pursuit and a good fight in the air. 

"So you say that this could be the work of a boy his age – an acquaintance, perhaps?" There is an edge of hesitance in his voice, presumably not because Draco thinks it impossible that a seventeen year old could cast a deadly hex, but because he is piecing together the other details of the case, and something doesn't quite fit. 

Dr Prince looks away from the bloody imprint. "Boys of that age can be cruel and vicious."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Boys of that age can be gullible and stupid."

"Spare me the tragic story of your youth."

The stretching shadows obscure Dr Prince's expression, but Draco, as usual, is well enough attuned to his partner's moods, and so without further comment he waves his wand to open the boy's satchel. "What about this?"

Creased sheets of paper and parchment float out of the satchel; Draco swishes his wand and one particular letter flies into Dr Prince's hand, albeit jerkily.

That's a dead giveaway – in my book as well as Dr Prince's, mind, Draco does not hide his injuries well – so it's really no surprise that Dr Prince asks flatly, "Your wrist again?"

Draco winces. "I only broke it twice."

"That's two times too many."

Another moment is spent with Dr Prince and Draco studying the coat of arms on the parchment, and then Dr Prince gives a tiny nod of approval. Draco nods right back, appearing, for all the politely not-watching CCTV cameras, cool and reserved, but inside he is gleeful like a six year old who just got a baby Hippogriff for his birthday – he was right, he knew he was right, and now he knows he was right because Severus thinks he was right!

It's sickeningly sweet, really.

So Draco ends the spell, the charmed body and the papers and the evening giving way to emptiness and midday.

And then it's time to have lunch. 

You know how it goes.

***

I myself am a late child, just like our distinguished family friend, Dr Prince. Unlike him, however, I have to experience all the thrills and horrors that come from having a sibling: someone who is one's own flesh and bone; someone who emerged from the same womb and is animated by the same lifeblood, so to speak.

My brother Draco is a wonderful, brilliant, insufferable creature, I dare say. Our affinity is eerie, as is our physical likeness, despite the fact that he is more than a quarter of a century older than I am. (However, brotherly affection aside, I have to acknowledge that some of Draco's idiosyncrasies border on eccentricity, and I don't refer to his penchant for green and silver paisley cravats. I mean his self-destructive persistence and a tendency for misplaced introspection, but I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities to discuss those later. Not a day passes without Draco presenting me another reason to despair of him.)

Unlike most dramatically older brothers, Draco did not take it upon him to be my role-model and set an example, more of a father than a brother, nor did he devote himself to the family affairs, thus allowing me to do as I please – which usually amounts to nothing or a great deal of mischief – as befits the spoiled younger son. Alas, I have never known such joyful days, but maybe it is all for the best.

Like I have mentioned, Draco did not let me venture upon the path of luxurious decadence without a care in the world. No, instead Draco burdened me with the obligation to procreate, to carry on the family name, and to manage the family estate into the bargain, all while he pursued reckless adventures and a decidedly level-headed love interest. But I am not in the least embittered by it, for I know that I owe my very existence to the fact that my brother preferred his career and lifestyle to the snares of family tradition. However, this does not mean that I am above needling him with my great sacrifice when it is necessary: sometimes I am simply desperate for leverage because Draco absolutely refuses to listen. He can be manically stubborn when he chooses, and at times guilt-tripping Draco into submission is the only means at my disposal. 

Dr Prince has other, more effective methods, but I cannot very well request his assistance every time I wish to get it into Draco's thick skull that he must rein his ambition somehow (because if Draco's ambition kills him, it will be a thoroughly unacceptable development). Firstly, it is because Draco is such a _child_ at heart, always greedy for a bit of attention and dragon slaying, that I am tempted to have an educational conversation with him just as often as his deathly battles take place, which is nearly every day, and Dr Prince is not at my beck and call – he is a busy, respectable gentlewizard. Secondly, because if I were to resort to the help of others at every occasion when I found it necessary to steady my shrewd, adventure-seeking brother, I would have absolutely no authority in his eyes. Therefore, most of the time I am on my own, trying to convince Draco that many people consider his life very precious, even if he himself does not, and would grieve if he was eaten by a Manticore; that our love does not depend on the number of Nundus he decapitated or conspiracies he unravelled; that even though our venerable parents are spared half the worry about the depths of Draco's lunacy, both because I intercept some of the newspapers and because Draco and I, by mutual agreement, refer to his exploits as little as possible and in the most plain, unembellished language, they still consider him a danger to himself as much as to the crass criminal world of Wizarding Britain. 

The fact that Draco actually looks abashed when I scold him is perfectly charming, though, and I admit that I derive no small pleasure from it. It almost makes up for the absurdity of the whole situation.

Still, if the fate has decided that I am to be, for all intents and purposes, the heir and eventual head of the family line, then I shall certainly not disregard my duty and neglect looking after my hot-headed, irrational brother, no matter how painful and tiresome the experience. I swear my temples are already turning silver, and all because of unending distress on Draco's behalf. 

Dr Prince mentioned that if one day Draco's stunts finally make me drop dead of fear and vexation, the irony might just kill him. 

(Whenever Draco does something monumentally stupid – which happens about once a year – like going undercover in a secret society of Dark wizards, I am a little tempted to do just that. Drop dead. Just to spite him, you know. 

I should like to see how he manages to get himself out of the disagreeable situation of being the only son _again_. I rather doubt our father is looking forward to having the Manor all aflutter with suckers and nappies for the third time.)

***

The next time Draco and Dr Prince bend over the mysterious coat of arms, it is neither on a recreated crime scene nor in the redecorated, glaringly minimalist library at the Manor. In fact, it is neither in the comfortable, if somewhat austere and claustrophobic, laboratories of the Department of Mysteries nor in Draco's own rakish study. No, of course not. It is in _my_ study, because apparently I am far superior to all those other godchildren Dr Prince has. It is clearly a gesture of approval. I cannot for the life of me recall Dr Prince laying claim to the living space of Albus Severus Potter or Celestina Zabini. (Probably because Potter is content to live in a pigsty and Celestina is obsessed with pink frills. Such things run in the family.)

And so Draco and Dr Prince find themselves in my study, neglecting perfectly good armchairs in favour of standing a little too close together, poring over the papers – marked _MoM evidence_ – strewn all over the desk.

They are all written in code, one that neither Arithmancers nor Charms Masters have been able to crack. But the coat of arms is a Hippogriff of another colour – to a knowing eye an image is worth a thousand words. And the garish design is practically screaming.

Draco taps the field thoughtfully, _argent masoned gules_. "Rather reminds me of my own, I must say."

Dr Prince looks over Draco's shoulder at the design and hums thoughtfully. "Yes, quite right; it is in a rather poor taste."

If Draco rolls his eyes at this, then Dr Prince is in no position to see that and thus makes no further comment. For a moment both men appear to be contemplating the coat of arms: a wall of white bricks with red mortar that seems to be pulsing and oozing, blood-like, due to the magically animated nature of the image, and charged in the centre with a _serpent vert_ vomiting flames.

"Charming," Dr Prince professes drily, even as the little painted snake turns its head and burps at him.

With a barely suppressed sigh, Draco begins rummaging in his papers, delicately slipping the offending heraldic device out of sight.

They find another parchment bearing the coat of arms, and a couple technical drawings marked in code. Draco is getting restless while Dr Prince is working on the possible combinations. Time is slipping away, stretched by the pleasure of working together and rushed by the need to charge into action. You know how it is. Or maybe you don't, but my dear brother certainly does.

Just as Dr Prince finishes deciphering one of the combinations and decides to open a bottle of Old Ogden's (possibly the one that Dr Prince himself sent me as a Christmas gift – I keep several in the study, one never knows when one might need them), Draco appears to have some sort of revelation. Those usually manifest themselves with a certain manic gleam in his eye, so Dr Prince gets a fair warning and an opportunity to pour himself a little more Firewhisky before they get closer to solving the puzzle and to Draco attempting something dashing and suicidal again.

Even as Dr Prince takes his first sip, Draco snaps his fingers and a sheet of paper struggles free from one of the folders on the desk. Another drawing twitches and obediently flies towards Dr Prince, hovering right in front of his nose. 

Maybe Draco is bouncing on the balls of his feet, maybe not. I'd rather not say.

Dr Prince studies the detailed image of a tree, not bothering to pick it up mid-air.

"It's the Estonian Elevating Elm," Draco says impatiently when Dr Prince's silence becomes too pointed.

"I can see that."

And so a tumbler of Firewhisky later, Draco and Dr Prince are able to put more pieces together and establish a connection which inevitably leads them to the conclusion that Harry Pimpernel's death has something to do with a recent mysterious Quidditch accident. It's all that damn Estonian Elevating Elm, banned from use in commercially produced brooms since 1873. 

When I come to the study to make sure that Draco and Dr Prince have neither passed away from hunger nor defiled my furniture in irreparable ways, I find Dr Prince finally gracing the armchair with his presence, reading the magiforensic report on Hortensia Jutikkala-Smyth's accident – and by extension, on the Elm twigs in her broom's tail.

I don't find Draco at all. He's already out there somewhere, breaking an illegal Broomstick Twig Smuggling Ring and daring some underage rascal to kill him.

I wish Dr Prince finally made my brother understand that he is not invincible just because he has survived risking his life every day for years and years. Then again, perhaps Draco is very well aware of it, and chooses to put his head on stake anyway.

I wonder who he learned that from?

***

The streets of London are loud and full, but few notice that the skies are just as full and just as loud. The air is filled with magic, and magic makes noise.

On the very top of the Heron Tower on Bishopsgate, the magic is loud indeed.

They are all just boys and girls, some looking like they still could be Hogwarts students; just very young and very foolish witches and wizards. But they want and need and fear and hate just as much as any other person, and they mean the hexes they cast just as much as anyone else. They are all just boys and girls, but they are boys and girls with wands, and they are circling around Draco like greedy little jackals. They know their spells. They are not fools.

Foolish people don't figure out how to smuggle illegal broomstick twigs into the country and get them in the Holyhead Harpies' broom tails. Foolish people don't figure out that one of them is about to rat them out to the Aurors. Foolish people don't figure out a way to make their chances even against a dangerous Unspeakable, even with the Anti-apparition wards in place. They know their strengths.

They are a dozen angry boys and girls, but they could have been grown wizards or a flock of veelas or miraculously resurrected Death Eaters; they could have been anyone, but Draco still would have gone alone. 

He makes his choice every time. If this is the moment to die, then this is it, the time has come; if not, then it's worth living to the fullest. Spending each day with the people he chooses, doing the things he chooses. Every day has to be worth it; not a day, not a moment to regret. Not anymore.

The air zings with magic, each hex and curse is accompanied with a bright burst of colour; their trails tangle together and pulse like flashing neon lights.

The boys and girls are all blurred together, casting spells as one. After all, they are just another strange force Draco has to confront – like a roaring dragon, like a crouching Nundu, like a smiling Sphynx. He doesn't know them; they are just two forces whose orbits have crossed, and now these forces are destined to clash.

A sharp, loud curse pierces the air – Draco's skin – his flesh. And everything is wrapped in silence. 

Even the magic is silent.

Draco freezes for a moment and falls, all arms and legs, like a Gytrash shot mid-leap.

Going down, down, down.

***

We hasten towards death.

Every day brings us closer to our destination; be the journey long or short, we are still rushing days and minutes. Prosperity in its opulent garments, grinning Poverty in rags, Ambition burning bright on her tarnished chariot, Love opening her hot embrace – with choked Freedom crawling somewhere at her feet – they all become a blur, just hazy, distant figures on the roadside.

We hasten towards death, jumping over months and seasons, walking through friendships and feuds, stumbling over choices and decisions, scattering bits of life in our wake like breadcrumbs. (We will never go back, however. We will not trace our steps back into the womb. We are only ever moving forward, closer and closer to the gaping, welcoming mouth of death.)

We hasten towards death, and in our single-minded determination we somehow forget that the obstacles and stepping stones on our way are just as transient as ourselves. Our tears and laughter are just as evanescent as our pains and joys and everything that causes them.

It is a quick, rabid, eternal dance, each figure as outlandish and timeless as the last. Every one of us will make it on time for the final bow, yet still we hurry.

We hasten towards death.

My brother calls me a man of morbid disposition, but I am merely aware of the shortness of life. Perhaps more than he would like me to be, but if we were all pure as children, we would be dancing the dance of death to very different music.

***

Now that I have told you quite a lot about my brother and what I think of him, I should like to tell you that he is quite well even as we speak. That is to say, as well as he can be. I am still not entirely convinced that he is actually sane. But then again, such things run in the family.

No, Draco didn't die at 110 Bishopsgate. And I assure you that Draco doesn't die yet. It is not that kind of story. 

Nor is it a story about the apprehension of broomstick twig smugglers or the lengthy recovery of Hortensia Jutikkala-Smyth, Viktor Krum's successor as the Greatest Quidditch Player in the World. These things were reported in the _Daily Prophet_ , and should you like to find out more, you can read about them there.

There is another thing about Dr Prince that I have omitted: he has incredibly good instincts. He always knows when Draco needs to be alone, and when Draco might need or want Dr Prince to congratulate him, or when Dr Prince's presence might be appreciated for other reasons. And – obviously for reasons of his own – Dr Prince is always there.

But this is not a story about Dr Prince's feelings. Merlin, he would kill me if I tried.

Actually, I think I told you the story I wanted.

As there is nothing else worthy of note there, I shall say that this is

THE END.


End file.
